


All the Better to Love You With

by chaoticTransmissions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, BAMF Darcy Lewis, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Multi, OT3, Other, Possessive Behavior, Red Riding Hood Elements, Touch-Starved, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves, Witch Darcy Lewis, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-06-10 10:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTransmissions/pseuds/chaoticTransmissions
Summary: Darcy is drawn to the forest outside her family home as surely as she is drawn to the magic that sings in her blood. Steve wants to find meaning beyond the provincial life he's designed for himself, starting with the wolf he saved in the woods as a child. Bucky has all but forgotten his humanity, until the call of two souls tames the beast inside him.No one ever said happily ever after would be simple.(On Hiatus until June of 2019)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself for years that I couldn't write a Marvel fic, and then I write two in a month. 
> 
> Yaya is greek for grandmother, by the way.

For as long as Darcy Lewis could remember, she did not go into the woods. 

It was not because she was scared. Darcy was never scared of anything. When she was six summers and knocked out a front tooth falling out of the big oak tree in the yard, she did not even cry. When a new one grew in its place a week later, Darcy called it her lucky tooth. And she was back in the big oak the next morning. 

It was not because she was not curious. Darcy was always curious about everything. By the time she was five and ten winters, her bedroom shelves were lined with satchels of yarrow and foxglove. Crystals in copper pots hung above the windows to soak in the moonlight. At night, Darcy would count off jars of rainwater and blood meal and list all their uses. 

No, the reason why Darcy did not go into the woods was because it was forbidden. 

Darcy’s yaya was not the forbidding type. When Darcy wanted to sleep under the stars at night, she could, so long as she burned incense to keep away the mosquitos. If Darcy wanted to read through yaya’s grimoire and try one of the spells (before she gained her own at thirteen) yaya would help her with every step so things did not go awry. 

But in the matter of the forest, Corinna Lewis could not be swayed. Darcy tried, of course. She begged and wheedled and pleaded, but yaya’s answer was always the same. “Kardia mou, the forest is not safe for you. There are things out there that would eat a young witch like you right up!”

The threat stopped scaring Darcy when she grew into her woman’s body, but the child’s curiosity inside her never faded. Eventually, Darcy stopped asking to go into the forest. Instead, she practiced her spells and collected berries from the fields for yaya’s pies. She read every book she could get her hands on and spent long afternoons floating in the cool river’s currents. 

It was a happy childhood, playing underneath the laundry line outside the cottage. Chasing rabbits through the long grasses of the prairie, or catching fireflies along the marsh. Though the nearest town was far away, and Darcy knew no children her age, she was not lonely. Yaya was all the company she needed.

Darcy did not even miss her parents, who died of a fever that not even magic could cure when Darcy was but a babe. She was too young to remember them, and yaya gave her more love than any child could need. 

But all the while, Darcy kept her eyes on the forest. She watched the shadows dance along the moss covered trunks, listened to the breeze rustle the canopy at night, and was inexplicably drawn to it. The older she grew, the louder it’s call. So Darcy watched. So Darcy waited. 

When yaya died, Darcy was approaching her twenty third spring. She was not surprised by her caretaker’s passing: yaya was old, and had been growing sicker with every passing year. But foreknowledge did not lessen her grief. 

Yaya was Darcy’s guardian and her only friend. Her entire world rested on the shoulders of one woman, and now that woman was gone. 

Darcy grieved for what seemed an eternity. Entire seasons passed by her door unnoticed. The little cottage in the woods seemed smaller than it ever had, the old floorboards creaking odiously with every spring storm, the roof groaning under the heavy winter snow. 

 

With no one to catch them, the fireflies lit the yard ablaze in solemn tribute to the fallen witch. The old oak tree bowed its ancient head, empty for once. The river currents bashed the rocks, which no one was left to sunbathe upon. 

It was yaya herself that finally broke Darcy from her grief. Or rather, the memory of her. Darcy knew exactly what her yaya would say to see her lying there, broken hearted and rotting inside. “You are a Lewis, and you are a witch. Your bones are made of iron, you have stardust in your eyes.”

Yaya would hate to see Darcy waste her life on sorrow. Had she not herself taught Darcy that death was part of the life cycle? Had Darcy not seen the bodies of baby birds who jumped too soon nestled beneath the maples, then took solace in seeing their siblings bolt like fire through the silver skies?

Yaya would want Darcy to be happy, and that meant forging her own path in the world. Darcy would honor her guardian’s memory by living fully, and by living the life that was etched in her bones. That sang in her blood. 

Darcy would go into the forest. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

For as long as Bucky could remember, he did not leave the woods. 

Why should he, when it was safe here? When there were rabbits in the undergrowth and fish in the river and he ate like a king. In the winter, there were hot springs to warm his fur by. In the summer, he chased shadows through the woods like he was a pup again.

Sometimes he shifted into his human form, and knit long chains of flowers with those hands that were far more dexterous than paws. Climbing, too, was possible as a human being. And speaking; a form of communication so far beyond what a wolf could convey. 

But this form was a rare occurrence, now that Bucky had no one to speak to. There had been people once. The hunter and his son, both golden haired and broad shouldered.

It had been the hunter who freed Bucky from another’s snare, all those moons ago. The hunter who did not flinch away in horror when the pain forced Bucky into his human form, as his mother did when she first discovered her child was a beast.

Bucky did not recall much of Margaret Barnes. He was so young when she first saw him shift into a wolf. When Margaret’s fear and disgust caused her to chase her only son away. His mother’s rejection frightened Bucky so badly, he had never returned.

Instead, Bucky wandered until he found the woods that became his home. He stayed in his wolf form constantly, because it was easier to survive that way. The language he had begun to learn, the humanness, was forgotten. It was better that way, for then so was the rejection and the loneliness.

There was a time when he was just the wolf. 

Then the hunter saved Bucky, and taught him how to be human again. He and his son, travelers from a distant village, nursed Bucky back from his wounds. It took a long time for Bucky to stop snapping his teeth every time they got close, to stop growling when their hands touched his injured arm.

The wound kept him in his human form, and after many moons of careful coaxing he began to trust the hunter and his son. The hunter would bring him food and check his bandages. 

The boy, around Bucky’s fourteen summers, would chatter endlessly in a language that Bucky barely remembered. He knew he thought like a human, but he could not speak like one. Then the boy helped him remember. 

The words came slow at first, as did the human behavior. Walking on two feet and hunting with a spear instead of his teeth. Sleeping under a tent, instead of the open sky. But the hunter was patient, and the boy was a faithful companion.

For the first time since his mother abandoned him, Bucky felt wanted. The boy and the hunter were his pack. And then frost began to press in on the woods, and the hunter’s mate called him home, and the boy with him. The abandonment was even more painful the second time around, because this time it was Bucky’s choice to leave. Or rather, to stay. 

When the hunter announced he and the boy were returning to their village, he asked Bucky to return with them. To live as a human being. “You will always have a home with us.” But Bucky could not go. He was not entirely a wolf, but he was not a man either. He could not live as one. 

So he said goodbye to his newfound pack and watched from the shadows as they left the forest forever. As deep as the well of pain within him was, Bucky could no more leave the forest than he could his soul, even if a piece of it rested within the hunter’s son. 

And though he sometimes missed his saviors, Bucky was content with his life. He rolled in the dew damp leaves and sunned himself along the riverbank. He slept at night with nothing between him and the sky but stars. 

Yet something always called to Bucky. Two somethings, in fact. The hum of some force just outside his reach, beyond the forest’s embrace. It was both ancient and young, enticing and coy. 

Then, even farther than that, the memory of the hunter’s son. His name between Bucky’s canines like a promise: Steve. Both songs were growing steadily louder with every passing day. Now, they were a roar. 

Bucky would wait in his forest, and see what arrived. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

For as long as Steve could remember, he did not believe in magic. 

As a child, his parents took him to see a traveling circus. While the other children in the village laughed at the clowns in grease paint and cried in awe at the magician's tricks, Steve watched for the trap door or the secret pocket that made the ‘magic’ possible.

He was always equal parts disappointed and smug when he spotted the lie behind the enchantment. 

Steve was a pragmatist. He did not believe in what he could no see. When he suddenly sprung up a foot and a half one summer, becoming taller than even his father was, Steve’s mother joked that his head was so close to the clouds, it was a miracle it was never in them. 

The thing about Sarah Rogers was that she was a dreamer surrounded by realists. How many times had Steve seen her crush leaves and berries into pigment for her paints, and watched in awe as she brought to life her imagination upon canvas? 

Even when Steve’s talent for drawing developed, it could never come close to what his mother did. Steve drew birds, and skylines, and the children that ran amok through their little village.

He could create the perfect likeness of anything upon the page, with lines that were always straight and shadows that lent the perfect illusion of depth. But if asked to draw something he could not see, something he must pull from his own imagination, Steve was at a loss. 

Sarah was the opposite. Her paintings were full of dragons leaping from jagged cliffs, maidens with the wings of butterflies astride shadow steads, and fleshless warriors carved from bone and sinew. Steve could draw, but his mother could create. 

Steve took after his mother in looks, however, if not in spirit. He had her honey blonde hair and blue eyes, her straight nose and easy smile. And he loved her dearly. He wished he could have her wonder for the world, and could see the threads of beauty that wove through her life like spider silk: gossamer, and golden, and heavy with the promise of magic.

Then there was Steve’s father. The lines of their jaw were alike, but not much else. His father’s hair was the color of autumn leaves and his features too sharp to resembles those of his son’s in any noticeable way. But it was him Steve truly took after. 

William Rogers was a simple man. He enjoyed the peacefulness of the forest, and the thrill of the hunt. He had respect for the animals who he killed, and thanked them all for their lives. He was a man of few words, but decisive action. And he loved his family more than anything. 

Steve’s parents should not have worked as a couple, as different as they were. Yet they did. Steve would catch them sometimes, just sitting together at the kitchen table late at night. 

His father would fletch arrows and his mother would paint, and sometimes they would look at each other and smile. In that single glance was an endless supply of trust, and understanding, and patience. 

Steve did not need magic, because he already knew love. Yet, magic found him anyway. The older Steve grew, the more he thought about the wolf in the woods. 

When Steve first reached adolescence his father took him on a year’s trip to teach him to hunt and survive, as was the tradition in their village.

Sarah made enough selling her paintings to get by on her own, but Steve’s father still spent several long months before their departure catching and preserving meat and stocking firewood for her while they were gone. 

Steve had many fond memories of that year. Taking down his first deer in a clean kill, then sparing another a few days later in repentance. They went hungry that night, but knowing that graceful creature still roamed the woods was worth it.

“It is about balance, my son,” his father told him. “We must give life to take it. We must honor what we take.” 

Then there was the time Steve went swimming in his first hot spring. The feeling of the hot water sinking into his tired feet and shoulders was pure bliss. Steve remembered his father laughing at him in a rare moment of teasing when Steve misplaced his tunic afterword and had to walk to the nearest village, shirtless, to purchase a new one

Yet the best memories of that trip lay with Bucky, the half boy-half wolf they had rescued from a snare. Bucky was the first true friend Steve ever had. The only boy his age who had not been turned away by Steve’s stubbornness, nor his practicality. 

Bucky was the first person besides his parents who Steve had ever wanted to impress. The first person to make his heart flutter beneath his ribcage. 

A year passed in Bucky’s company and it was time for Steve and William to return home. Steve missed his mother, and his village, and thought he would have Bucky by his side. But Bucky would not come with them. The forest was Bucky’s domain, and the wolf within him called it home. 

Steve remembered being angry. Angrier than he could ever recall, because it was easier to feel anger than sorrow. “We can be your home,” he wanted to tell the other boy. Instead, he followed his father out of the forest and left behind a piece of his heart. 

Back in the village, Steve spent a dozen summers waiting for things to feel the same again. To be the same man he always had, content with the simple life he had and with both feet firmly on the ground. 

Steve would fall in love with one of the youths in town, and start a family. One day he would teach his own son to hunt, or perhaps his daughter. Times were changing, after all. 

But the young girls who smiled prettily at him in the market did not stir his heart. The broad shouldered boys who sat around him in church elicited no longing. And even though his feet were still firmly planted, Steve’s heart longed for the cathedral of the forest, the bartering of the stars. 

Steve still did not believe in magic, despite everything he thought he remembered about a boy who could turn into a wolf at will. But he wanted to believe. He wanted it more than anything. So he said a bittersweet goodbye to his parents, and set out on his own. He would go where destiny was calling him.

Steve would return to the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

Darcy was not the type of witch to jump rashly into things.

It was not a matter of cowardice that delayed her journey into the woods. Darcy was a Lewis, and Lewis women had courage to spare. Darcy’s great-aunt Maria, for example. When a branch of the Shield Clan--- a nomadic people known for their ferocity as warriors and reclusive natures--- passed through Maria’s village, she had been the only one to welcome them. 

Discarding the tales she’d been told all her life about the nomadic clans being something to fear, or to despise, Maria broke bread with the Shield people. She became one of the few outsiders to be welcomed into their fold, earning both their trust and their admiration with her craft. 

When Maria fell in love with a woman in the clan, something also frowned upon by her village, Maria married the woman anyway under clan authority and became a member of the Shield people. 

The woman Maria married was known as the Black Widow, the deadliest warrior to walk the continent, and a legend among mortals. Darcy knew her simply as ‘great-aunt Natasha’. 

Then there was Darcy’s own Yaya, who once told her stories of fighting in the Chitauri wars. She and her mother, Darcy’s Proyaya, were both army sorceresses, defending Kyorwen from the Chitauri invaders. Corinna Lewis survived it. Sif Lewis did not. 

The point was, Lewis women did not hesitate, least of all Darcy Lewis. They waited. They considered, and when it was wise to act, they did so decisively. 

And so it was that when she made up her mind to enter the forest, Darcy did not go immediately. There were any number of preparations that needed to be undertaken first. 

The matter of protection was paramount. There was no telling what lay in the woods, but Yaya’s warnings and Darcy’s own senses pushed her towards caution. All her life she had felt the energy that pulsed between those trees, and felt her own magic hum in return. 

Places of great magic acted as beacons for all manner of creatures, many of which Darcy had no desire to tangle with. So, the young witch set about preparing a cloak to shield herself.

Darcy unearthed her yaya’s old spinning wheel from the cellar, brushing a year’s worth of dust from the dark wood. She collected moon-soaked spider silk and maiden’s tears (her own were easy enough to use), and spun them into thread with the wheel. 

White was the color of purity, not protection--- and it was impractical besides--- so Darcy dyed the thread with holly berry pigment. Red was the color for shielding and safe passage. Then, there was the matter of creating the fabric, and finally, sewing the cloak.

By the time Darcy finished, months had passed. The cloak hung proudly on the hook by the door, scarlet cloth lined with silk. The bulk of summer had slipped away as Darcy worked, and the first whisper of Autumn was stealing across the land. She would be grateful for the cloak’s warmth during the night chill. 

Along the lining of the hood, Darcy had stitched various symbols for protection, health, and even warmth. The fabric itself hummed with Lewis magic, which wrapped around Darcy like a shield as she settled the vivid garment across her shoulders one bright morning. 

The night before she’d dreamed of bathing naked in the river. Not the broad banks just outside the cottage, but the narrow streams of the forest proper. Eyes watched her, hungrily, from the shadows and Darcy’s bare skin prickled in awareness. The gaze did not make her feel afraid, but powerful. Blissful.

Darcy had woken with the knowledge that today she must depart.

Checking that her dagger was still tucked into her left boot, Darcy stepped out into the glow of the dawning sun. Birdsong hummed around her, the air thick with the ether of life. Darcy walked with steady purpose beyond the border of her property and into the treeline. 

The magic wrapped around Darcy at once, almost dizzying in its eagerness. It was much like a hound greeting a passersby; Darcy was glad for its welcoming, but she must not forget its teeth. 

The cloak was doing its job well, allowing enough leniency for Darcy’s own magic to test the air, but keeping the forest magic from getting too close. 

With no particular destination in mind, Darcy set off walking through the trees. Whatever was calling her would find its way into her path, or she its. But there would be no hurrying of fate. For now, Darcy swung the basket she’d brought to collect ingredients in as she gazed up at the swaying canopy of leaves. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

After spending his whole life in the forest--- or the whole of his life that he could bear to acknowledge-- Bucky knew the way it felt. 

As a werewolf, he was a creature who magic hung about. It followed him as his own shadow did, and kept as close as his own fur. But he possessed no magic himself, regarding the strange aether as he would a storm or another predator. Something to be respected, but cautious of. 

Still, Bucky knew the woods around him. Had grown used to the magic that buzzed around him like honey bees in pollen season, or flowed lazily at his side as cool and broad as the eastern river. So when the forest shifted one early fall morning, he felt the change instantly. 

Hackles prickling with awareness, Bucky scented the air. It was heavy with some unknown scent. Predator that he was, the werewolf picked his way cautiously across the forest floor, seeking the intruder. 

The scent grew only stronger, and with it the presence of magic. 

Unlike the ancient forest around Bucky, this magic was as new and sweet as winter frost on the back of his throat. It felt right, settling on his teeth and at the base of his spine. Like it belonged there.

Stalking on silent paws through the trees, Bucky spotted a flash of scarlet in the distance. It was a female human, a petite one, in a red cloak. She clutched a basket in one hand.

Her eyes were sharp with intelligence, despite the fact that’d she’d yet to notice Bucky. He was an excellent hunter, after all. 

The female’s hair was dark, the black silk of a clear night’s sky. Her skin looked so soft, so bone white. Bucky wished he could see his marks on the nape of her throat. Startled by his own desires, Bucky took a step back as the long-buried human side of him rose to the surface. 

This unknown female radiated the power that called to him. Bucky knew, without ever before encountering one, that the girl was a witch. He knew it as surely as he knew which way was west or what the color of the sky was.

Irritated by his own hesitation, Bucky stepped out from his hiding place, intentionally heavying his gate so the female would hear him. She looked up, blue eyes widening as they took in the hulking grey wolf before her.

Bucky puffed his chest, showing off his smooth coat. The witch was more than just a source of intrigue for the wolf. She was a source of want for the human man Bucky had all but forgotten. 

Bucky tilted his head intently, watching the witch to see what she would do. He had no intention of harming her, unless she forced him to. She was the first human he’d encountered since the hunter and his son, and the only female he’d seen since his mother. Bucky was… curious about her. 

The pretty female’s mouth tightened in nervousness, but she held her ground even as Bucky slowly approached. If her power did not garner his respect, her courage did. “You are not just a wolf, are you?” the witch asked, clutching her red garment around her like a shield. 

If she were another wolf, or bore his mating bite, Bucky could speak to her in her mind. But as it was, the witch could not understand him in wolf form. Irritated by the necessity of a change, Bucky nonetheless shifted into his (less preferred) human form. He did not wish the woman to leave before he spoke to her. 

The change was an odd one, given that he’d not made it in many years. It took Bucky a long moment to adjust to the stretch of his skin, the creak of his bones. 

How much taller Bucky was in this form, and without his fur to warm him! Walking on two feet was as strange as ever, though he’d once been as adept with the appendages as he was on four paws. 

The witch watched with wide eyes as Bucky changed. There was no fear nor disgust on her face, as there had been on his mother’s. There was not even the hesitance the hunter and his son bore all those years ago when they first saw Bucky change. This female looked at Bucky with awe, her slender fingers twitching as if to follow the path of his transformation. 

Pleased at her approval, Bucky cleared his throat and tried to speak. It took a moment to recall the spoken language, the process of moving his lips and teeth and tongue to form words. 

“Witch,” he struggled. 

“Yes,” the female agreed, baring her teeth at him in the sunlight. No, not baring her teeth. Smiling. She was showing pleasure with him, in that strange way that humans did. “I am Darcy.” 

“Darcy,” Bucky repeated, this particular word coming easily. Her name felt instinctual, like it had always been perched on the tip of his tongue. “Darcy.” The witch nodded again, and smiled. 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

Bucky circled her. Darcy stiffened, and he scented nervousness on her. Nervousness, but not fear. “Bucky,” he said at last, awkwardly. 

“Bucky…” Darcy tried. Bucky grunted, pleased. 

“Bucky, um,” Darcy was gazing from his face down the line of his throat, then back up to his face again. Any time her eyes strayed lower than his stomach she flinched and stared up at the sky. Her cheeks were as red as her cloak.

Bucky tried to remember what he knew about humans. “You...ill?” Bucky asked, staring at the color in her cheeks. Darcy shook her head rapidly, her cheeks pinking further. There was something enticing about the color.

“You are not wearing any clothing,” Darcy explained. “Humans wear clothes to cover ourselves, unless we are coupling.” 

“Ah,” Bucky articulated. So the human female was modest, embarrassed by his nudity. Indeed, she herself was wrapped in the cloak, and beneath it a dark dress. It was odd to Bucky. He’d not covered himself since the hunter and his son left. Still, he did not wish to make Darcy nervous. 

“I… don’t have… clothes.” Satisfied with himself for getting out the human sentence, Bucky resumed his pacing around Darcy. 

“I can bring you some,” Darcy ventured. “I can come back tomorrow. If you’d like me to.” She was gaining courage as they spoke, apparently satisfied Bucky was not going to attack her. 

“Yes,” Bucky agreed, wishing for the pretty female to return. “Come back.” Darcy showed her teeth once again. 

“Okay, Bucky, tomorrow.” She glanced back at him one more time, before picking a cautious back the way she came. Bucky shifted back into the familiar wolf form, and followed on silent paws until Darcy was safely out of the forest. 

Tomorrow, he thought, and remembered the curve of her cheek. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Steve had traveled little in his life since his coming of age journey as a boy. 

That had been years ago, with his father by his side--- and later--- Bucky. Some of Steve’s fondest memories were of the long trail and its frequent diversions. Of a boy-wolf with eyes like living oak and rough hands that held Steve’s own as they played together.

Steve found that this journey was far different than the first. It was lonelier, for one, without his father by his side. He missed his parents bitterly, and on the harshest of nights shed tears for the family he was leaving behind.

Steve hoped he would see them again someday, had planned on it when he left. Yet, Sarah and William were getting older, and the turning of time was cruel indeed. The journey back to his village from the forest took nearly a month’s time. It was no easy feat to return. 

Then there was the matter of difficulty. When Steve was a youth, his father took charge of the journey. While Steve was expected to help and work alongside him so he could learn, he was still only a boy.

Now it was solely Steve’s responsibility to set up camp and bring in food. Once or twice he even faced threats in the form of wild animals and bandits. Both were dispatched, but not without some difficulty. 

Fear that his parents would be struck by illness or disaster while he was away paralyzed Steve, but his feet never halted for long. Every time doubt overtook him, some unnamed force propelled the huntsman further on. The only thing stronger than his sadness was the assurance that he must continue. That fate was waiting for him, somewhere up ahead. 

It was late Autumn before Steve first laid eyes on the forest. 

Cresting over a broadly slopping hill he did not recognize, Steve surveyed the shifting green canopy on the horizon. He and his father had taken a more eastern path when they’d traveled here the first time, so most of the surroundings were unfamiliar. But the forest remained the same. 

A sense of longing hit Steve like a wave and he sunk to his knees in the grass. ‘It’s here’ he thought. ‘Whatever my destiny is, its right here before me.’ 

The forest was less than an hour’s journey now. Suddenly, the fear that something had happened to Bucky overwhelmed Steve. Worse was the fear that the wolf would not remember him. Steve pushed it away as he pulled a piece of charcoal from his bag. 

Steve had come all this way at the behest of Lady Fate. There was no sense in worrying about what could be, only pushing on to what was. Thus, Steve sat and sketched the forest before him, coaxing life from charcoal and shadows. This was the only kind of magic he dealt in. 

So absorbed in his drawing was he, that Steve didn’t hear the bandit until it was nearly too late. In fact, he did not hear him at all. It was only the glint of sunlight on Steve’s sketchbook, cast by metal, that made him look up.

There he found a sword arching down toward his head. 

Dropping the sketchbook, Steve rolled out of the way in the nick of time. The heavy blade struck the earth, becoming lodged long enough for Steve to scramble to his feet. There was no grace in the movement, but it was efficient nonetheless. Steve was a large man of brute strength--- he had no need for nimbleness. 

The bandit wrenched the sword free and swung it once more. Steve ducked and pulled his hunting knife from its scabbard. The serrated blade slashed fiercely toward the bandit, who parried with the sword and nearly knocked the knife from Steve’s hand. 

Steve held on tight, however, gritting his teeth as the shockwave reverberated through his arm. He punched with his left hand and hit his assailant in the jaw. The brawny man bellowed, then slashed brutally at Steve’s stomach.

Only the quick reflexes of a hunter kept Steve from getting gutted. Instead, the blade struck shallowly, scoring him from collar to navel. It was not a killing wound, but it could become one if Steve did not stop the bleeding soon. There was always the risk of infection, as well. 

A cry of rage and pain tore free from the blonde’s chest, and he swung his dagger into the neck of the bandit. The man shrieked his death knell, then fell dead onto the grass. It was the first man Steve had ever killed. 

Later, he would not be proud to say he upturned his stomach immediately afterward. 

When he could heave no more, Steve stripped off his tunic and pressed it to his bleeding side. Ignoring the throbbing in his abdomen, he knelt to inspect his sketchbook. 

The forest drawing had been trampled on by the bandit’s muddy boot. Other than that, the book appeared unharmed. Steve’s grandmother’s wedding ring, the only thing of value he’d brought with him, was still on the chain around his neck. 

Steve let out a sigh of relief, tucking the sketchbook into his bag for safekeeping. He knew it was no use staying in his current camp. He lacked the ability to care for his own wounds in this condition. There must be someone nearby who could help. 

“Bucky,” Steve panted. Bucky would help him, surely. Hefting his things over his shoulder with a pained grunt, Steve stumbled down the hill and toward the forest. His side ached, and his tunic was damp with blood. Several times he stumbled and nearly fell. 

Steve lost all track of time. His limbs felt heavy, his head light. He barely knew where he was going, or why. Only that he must reach the forest. He must. 

Steve reached out a pale hand towards the trees before him, a plea for some unknown entity on his lips. Then he collapsed into the long grass, and everything fell away in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to new readers and returning readers alike. I’m sorry this update took such a long time and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I tried to make references to the MCU without compromising the integrity of the fantasy setting. For those of you who missed it. Maria Lewis = Maria Hill. Natasha is obviously the black widow. Darcy’s great grandma is Sif, from Asgard. The land of Kyorwen, where she lives, is an anagram of New York XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't clear in the first chapter, Steve's arrival at the end of the last chapter was two months after Darcy and Bucky first meet. I tried to convey that by talking about the seasons, but I might not have been explicit enough.

Darcy returned to the forest the next day, as she had promised. 

She realized as she stepped into the thick magic of the forest once again that she had no idea how or where to find Bucky. Luckily, she didn’t need to look for long. Darcy had barely made it out of earshot of her cottage when a dark form burst from the trees and bolted straight towards her. 

Darcy’s magic flared in warning, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. When she realized the hulking beast was Bucky, she relaxed, soothing down the ruffled feathers of her magic. After she’d lectured the werewolf on scaring her and Bucky was in his human form, she gave him the clothes she’d brought for him to change into.

“They belonged to my Pappous,” Darcy told Bucky, surveying his appearance. The pants were a bit short on him, but the clothes fit him well otherwise. A small pang of regret that she could no longer see the tan skin of his shoulders struck Darcy, but she pushed it away. Fine specimen or not, she was here out of intellectual curiosity, not to gawk at a bared torso. 

Darcy’s yaya had once studied sirens just off the north coast, and if she could manage not to lose her senses over the most alluring creatures known to exist, then Darcy could keep it together over a single werewolf. 

“You… pappous?” Bucky asked, sounding out the word slowly. He pointed towards himself. “Language bad, but no pappous.” It took Darcy a moment to puzzle out what he was saying. 

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to know it,” Darcy reassured. “It’s not the language we’re speaking now, but another language from another land. My pappous is my mother’s father.” Bucky nodded slowly, still tugging at the collar of his shirt with mistrust. 

“Grandfather,” he said, finally abandoning the shirt and looking down at Darcy. 

“Yes, my grandfather!” Darcy encouraged. “That’s the word for it in Kyorwen.” Something occurred to her suddenly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Darcy knew enough about werewolves to recognize the feel of one’s energy, but the details beyond that eluded her. How human was Bucky’s mind? How animal? 

“I understand,” Bucky urged. “Bad speak.” 

“So you think as I do?” Darcy asked. “You just can’t express it well?”

“Not sure,” Bucky said. “How do--” he pointed to her “think?” 

“I suppose that’s a good point,” Darcy responded with a laugh. “You seem to think humanly enough.” Even if he was in a man’s body, Darcy would feel uncomfortable daydreaming about the forearms of a creature who did not possess a man’s consciousness. 

“Do you live as a wolf all the time?” Darcy asked, the curiosity she’d been trying to restrain bursting free against her wishes. Clearly, he hadn’t lived in human society for long, given his awkwardness with clothes and his difficulty in speech. But he had learned to speak somewhere.

“Yes,” Bucky replied. 

“Why?” Bucky did not respond. He was staring at Darcy’s hands. “What is it?” She asked, then caught her breath as Bucky’s slowly reached for her. He engulfed one of her hands in both of his own, staring down at it in awe. Darcy tried to stay still as he began to brush his thumb across her knuckles. His fingers were calloused, no doubt from a life spent running on his paws  
.  
“Soft,” Bucky said lowly. Darcy shivered and he caught it with those quick eyes of his. His brows furrowed in concern. “Darcy is sick?” It was the same reaction he’d had to her blush the other day. 

“No, I’m not sick,” Darcy assured him. “I’m not used to men touching me. Or people at all, really.” 

Bucky let go of her hand at this, and though Darcy mourned the loss of contact, she couldn’t bring herself to grab his hand again. “Darcy, no mate?”

“No, I don’t have a mate,” Darcy replied. 

“No pack?”

Darcy sighed softly, hugging her cloak around her as if it might provide the same comfort Bucky’s touch had. His skin against her’s felt so instantly and inexplicably right. Why, Darcy could not say. Perhaps she just hadn’t been around enough men in her life. In fact, she could count the number on one hand. “My pack is all gone now.” 

Bucky’s bright eyes stared into Darcy’s, and he nodded solemnly. “My pack gone too.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to be alone. What ha--” the distant echoing of a roar interrupted Darcy’s train of thought. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and her cloak hummed around her in warning. Whatever had made the noise, it was not something she wanted to cross paths with. 

Darcy glanced at Bucky and saw that same wariness reflected in his eyes. “Come,” he urged, reaching out to grab Darcy’s wrist. He hesitated before touching her again, then wrapped his fingers around her wrist with the utmost gentleness when she nodded her head. He probably possessed the strength to snap the bones in Darcy’s wrist like twigs, but he cradled her hand as if it was glass. 

“Where are we going?” Darcy asked, breathless, as they began to run through the woods. Compared to her’s, Bucky’s steps were as light and graceful as air. 

“Show you forest,” Bucky called. He offered her a smile, though it was awkwardly formed. Clearly, the expression was new to him. “How I see it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Darcy returned to the forest the next day, as she had promised. 

Bucky felt the shift in the magic of the trees almost immediately and ran towards the forest boundary until he caught her scent. Darcy looked startled when Bucky bounded out of the trees at her, but relaxed when she saw it was only him. “You startled me,” she chastised, though her tone was gentle. 

Bucky’s ears drooped, embarrassed. He could hardly explain that he’d been so excited to see her again that he’d lost control of himself like a pup at the first touch of spring. 

Bucky wanted Darcy to think of him as a powerful wolf, a powerful man, who could protect her. He wanted to impress her, and scaring her out of her wits was hardly the way to do it. Darcy sighed when she took in his slumped form.

“It is alright, Bucky. I was worried for you, that’s all. If I thought you were an attacker, I might cast a spell that could hurt you.” The idea that this little slip of a female should be dangerous to him might have been amusing to Bucky, if he was not able to feel the power rolling off her in waves. Instead, he was pleased Darcy was worried for him. 

Spotting the clothe clutched under Darcy’s arm, Bucky shifted into his human form. Once again, Darcy watched in interested, shying away only when he was in his man’s skin before her. “What… see when change?” Bucky asked, puzzling through the human words to accompany his thoughts. He wanted to know what the shift from his wolf to human form looked like to an observer. 

Darcy frowned, clearly trying to figure out what Bucky was asking. He waited patiently until she was ready to respond. “What does it look like to me when you change between forms?” Darcy asked. Bucky nodded. 

“Well, it confuses my mind. I can see your bones shift at some points, and your skin darken to fur, but…” Darcy shrugged. “The magic shields the rest. By the time you’ve shifted, I can’t quite recall what I’ve seen.”

“Ah,” was all Bucky said. Darcy smiled, holding up the clothes. She was looking very pointedly at only his face. Bucky took them from her outstretched hands, his skin brushing hers in the process. A sense of rightness flooded through Bucky at the touch. He knew then that Darcy would come again. 

And she did, every few days for two moon cycles. Always wrapped in that red cloak. No matter how long she stayed, Bucky wished it was longer. 

He kept a stash of the clothes she’d brought him in a hollowed tree. Sometimes he would change into them before she arrived, and they’d walk together while Bucky struggled to turn his thoughts into words. Darcy always listened patiently, laughing like the creek on a clear day. Sometimes, Bucky could make her blush. He savored those times immensely.

When Bucky could not tolerate his human skin, he would play-chase Darcy through the groves, or bathe in the sun while she stroked his fur. He liked to listen to her talk about magic, though her list of ingredients for this or that spell made him drowsy. Bucky would not let himself fall asleep, though. He had to watch over Darcy.

They’d had no more brushes with dark creatures since Darcy’s first day in the woods, but they still stalked the forest. Bucky smelled them at times and would nudge Darcy in a safer direction with his hackles raised. Darcy seemed to have a feel for them too, pulling her cloak around her as if struck by a chill when something malevolent hovered nearby.

Slowly, Darcy was becoming a fixture in Bucky’s life, and he couldn’t help but feel it was meant to be this way. She was his pack. He’d been waiting for her all this time, and now she was here with him. So why, then, did he still feel that something was still missing? 

One day, Bucky woke before dawn, his jaw tight and his stomach leery. He paced the border of the forest warily, stalking through the shadows in search of some threat. Bucky remarked his territory three times before he could sleep again. 

Something was wrong. Not with him, but some extension of him. It was as if some phantom limb of his had begun causing him pain. Was it Darcy? Bucky began to worry so when she did not visit him for almost a week’s time. But when he neared the edge of the forest, he could still smell her scent; distant but strong. Healthy. 

So why was Bucky so riled up? And why did she not come to visit him? Bucky realized he had no idea where she lived, besides that fact that it was nearby. She never talked about her home life, though Bucky assumed she lived alone. He never smelled anyone else on her when she came to visit. 

When Darcy had not returned for a week, Bucky stood at the edge of the forest, that line which he could not, would not cross, and demanded her return. Demanded the restoring of balance in his soul. His howls echoed through the night. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

It was nearing two months since she’d first met Bucky when Darcy’s second stranger stumbled his way into her life. Or rather, Darcy stumbled her way into his. 

She’d been meaning to scent Bucky’s clothes with a protective herb for ages now, but all the ones Darcy had in stock would be overpowered by the magic in the forest. She needed something that could withstand constant magic pressure, and nothing growing around the cottage or in the woods seemed to fit the bill. 

After consulting Yaya’s books, Darcy decided caraway seeds would do the job. Then it was just a matter of finding some. If Darcy remembered her rare trips to the nearby village correctly, there were some carraway plants growing on the hills to the north of the cottage. 

It wasn’t a long journey, so Darcy collected her satchel one afternoon and set off in search of the rare herb. The late autumn chill rustled half bare trees, but the sun warmed Darcy’s face and neck as she walked. 

After less than a quarter of an hour, Darcy spotted something dark strewn across her path. But it wasn’t the plants she’d been looking for. Instead, it was a man lying unmoving. He was bare chested except for a bundle of cloth pressed to his side. Darcy called out hesitantly, but he didn’t stir. 

As she approached, Darcy realized the cloth was dark with blood. She made a horrified noise, hurrying to the man’s side at one. He looked around her age, with a golden beard and wide shoulders. A ring hung on a chain from his neck, and a small bag lay at his side. His face was bone white. 

Darcy dug through her satchel for the strips of cloth she always kept on hand in case her monthlies suddenly made an appearance. When her gentle shaking and raised voice could not wake the man, Darcy began to bandage his wound.

Snaking the cloth underneath his body was difficult, tiring work, but eventually Darcy managed. When she’d tied the bandages as tight as they would go, Darcy began to strategize on how she should move him. 

First, she tried to lift him over her shoulder. It was no use. He was too heavy: probably twice her weight in solid muscle and a near foot taller. She had things at the cottage that would temporarily boost her strength, but she was afraid to leave the stranger long enough to return for them. 

The man had already lost a good deal of blood. If Darcy didn’t act quickly, it was very likely he would die. That ruled out going to the nearest village for help or going to Bucky. If Bucky could even leave the forest. The one time Darcy had asked him that question, he’d seemed so bewildered by the idea of leaving that Darcy had been forced to let the subject drop. 

Darcy tugged at her cloak strings from where they had shifted to choking her during her attempt at a lift. She wasn’t due back in the forest for two days, so it was an ordinary cotton one without a hint of magic in the thread. 

Her red one was at home, soaking in bottled moonlight to restore it. The constant magical bombardment of the forest would wear down Darcy’s protection spells quickly if the cloak wasn’t regularly upkept.

Darcy fingered the cloak strings thoughtfully. An idea had just occurred to her. Quickly, she untied the blue cloak from her neck, slinging the man’s bag over her shoulder in the process. As she began to push the cloak underneath his lower body, Darcy had a brief moment of doubt. 

There was no telling who this man was, or why he was injured. He could be a criminal on the run from the law for all she knew. Still, Darcy could not stop herself from aiding him. Criminal or not, he would die without her help. 

Besides, the man’s face had a certain softness to it in his unconsciousness. A pureness that not even Darcy herself possessed. It was naive to judge on looks alone, but somehow Darcy felt trust in her very bones when she looked at the man. And besides, she was a Lewis witch. She could take care of herself. 

When the cloak was as far underneath the injured man as it was going to go, Darcy grabbed the man underneath his arms and began to drag. 

It was tough going, with Darcy having to stop every few minutes to catch her breath and stretch her aching leg muscles. The cloth helped to ease the friction and make the man easier to drag, but every time the path jostled him, Darcy winced. The last thing he needed was for Darcy to throw him around like a ragdoll. 

What seemed like ages later, Darcy and the unconscious man reached her cottage. With the blessing of some ancient deity, Darcy was able to get him inside. Sweat was already heavy on her brow and between her breasts, so there was little point in trying to lift the man onto the bed.  
Instead, Darcy pulled him onto her plushest carpet and put a pillow under his head. Then she got to work. The next hour involved frantic fluttering from one end of the cottage to another. There were herbs to be ground and water to be boiled and pastes to be made. 

Darcy may not have a doctor’s expertise, or a surgeon’s prowess, but she had a healer’s magic, which was even better. She had the man’s wound cleaned, stitched, and bandaged in no time. His pulse was weak but showed no signs of slowing. Darcy even managed to make the stranger choke down a potion to increase his rate of blood production, though he remained unresponsive. 

“You’ll live,” Darcy told the prone figure as she collapsed into her bed. The day had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and it was only early evening. “Whoever you are.” Darcy realized with dismay that she’d not gotten any caraway seeds. Oh well, it would have to wait. 

At some point, Darcy must have drifted to sleep, because when she next bolted upwards it was dark outside. Darcy looked immediately towards the man. She relaxed when she saw he was lying right where she’d left him, still sleeping. 

Darcy checked his pulse and found it beating steadily. She changed his bandages with some difficulty and coaxed more of the potion down his throat. The initial shock of the injury and effects of blood loss should wear off by the next morning, which meant Darcy’s mysterious guest would be awakening soon. 

In the meantime… Darcy glanced cautiously at the bag she’d picked up from beside him. As awful as it made her feel, she began to dig quickly through its contents. As much as she trusted her instincts, Darcy wasn’t a complete idiot. The man was still a stranger. It was better to be safe than sorry. 

The bag contained mostly clothes, a small amount of food, and some hunting supplies. Or at least, she assumed the supplies were for snares and the knives for hunting. Darcy briefly considered confiscating the knives on a temporary basis, but settled for putting them at the bottom of the bag instead, so they would take longer to reach. 

The last item Darcy inspected was a leather bound book of some kind. When she opened it, Darcy caught her breath. It was filled with sketches. One even appeared to be of the forest just outside. The sketches were beautifully and carefully rendered. Every detail was precise, ever shadow hyper real. The man was clearly talented. 

Feeling as if she’d violated his privacy, but reassured to find nothing suspicious, Darcy tucked the sketchbook back into the man’s bag. 

Darcy slept fitfully that night, her magic hovering around her like a protective shield. Every few hours she woke to change the man’s bandages and reapply a healing paste to his wound. It was a long cut, but luckily for the stranger, it was shallow. 

When dawn finally came, Darcy climbed wearily from bed, having resigned herself to the fact that she could not possibly sleep any longer. She was in the process of cracking eggs for breakfast (she and Yaya had always kept a goat and a few chickens out back) when a low cough from behind her nearly made her drop the pan. 

Darcy spun to find her strange guest staring at her in alarm. His eyes were bluer than the sky on a clear day. For the first time, Darcy was struck by how handsome he was. Even on a sickbed. The man coughed again and began to push himself up on his elbows. 

Darcy set the pan down and hurried to his side. “Careful, you’re still injured. Mind you don’t tear open a stitch.” The man stared at Darcy, then around at the cottage. He still looked confused, but not so uneasy as he had a minute ago. Clearly, he didn’t find Darcy to be a threat. 

Well, that was fine. Darcy preferred it that way. 

“What… happened?” the man rasped. Darcy shushed him and slowly helped the man to his feet. When she was sure that he hadn’t torn a stitch, Darcy helped him to Yaya’s bed. It was bigger than hers, but Darcy had yet to move into it. She was still sleeping in the smaller room down the hall. 

“You tell me,” Darcy replied, once again inspecting his bandages. “I found you bleeding and unconscious a few minutes away from my home. I brought you back here to help you.” The man seemed to be trying to say something, but failing. “I will get you a glass of water, hold on.”

Nervously, Darcy hurried to the clean drinking basin in the kitchen. She’d filled it at the well just that morning. A moment later she returned and helped the man to drink. When he’d had his fill, the stranger spoke, his voice much stronger. 

“Then I owe you my life. Thank you, you have my deepest gratitude” the man rumbled. The way he was looking at her made Darcy’s head light, so she quickly waved it away. 

“It was nothing. Please don’t mention it.” The man looked ready to argue, so Darcy forged ahead. “My name is Darcy Lewis. You’re in my cottage.”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve introduced. “I’m in your cottage.” He slumped back onto the sheets when the water glass was empty. Darcy tried to rise to get more, but Steve’s hand on her arm convinced her to stay. “I didn’t realize anyone lived out here.”

“No one does,” Darcy replied. “Besides me. You’ve been here before? Are you from the village?” She did not recognize him from any of her trip there, but those trips had been rare and brief. 

“No. I live a long way from here, but my father brought me once when I was a child,” Steve supplied. Darcy was curious why a man would bring his child such a long way just to come here, and why Steve had returned, but she didn’t press. Perhaps it had something to do with the forest’s magical nature? Unlikely, given that there was not a hint of magic on this man. 

“What caused your wound, Steve?” Darcy asked. Steve launched into a story about being attacked by a bandit and slaying the man after sustaining his wound. Darcy didn’t see any deception on his face and decided she believed him. Not just because he was handsome, either. 

And handsome Steve was. Where Bucky had rugged, wild beauty, Steve was as fine and sharply cut as marble. Darcy should feel bad about being attracted to Steve when her heart had been longing for Bucky, but for some reason her heart seemed to accommodate them both perfectly. 

“I’m sorry to impose on you, Miss Lewis,” Steve said, when he had finished his tale. Darcy brought him another glass of water midway through. “Now that I’m awake, I won’t burden you any longer.”

When Darcy realized he was trying to get up, she sat frozen in shock for a few seconds before gently pushing him back down. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not imposing, and you’re not well enough to leave. You must stay until your wound heals. I insist.”

Steve looked hesitant, but when he saw Darcy’s stern looked, he relented with a sheepish smile. “If you insist, then I suppose I’ll stay. But I don’t wish to take advantage of your kindness, Miss Lewis.”

“And you won’t,” Darcy assured. “And drop the Miss Lewis.”

“Mrs. Lewis?” Steve asked. 

“No, just Darcy. I’m not married,” Darcy hurried to correct. 

“Darcy,” Steve echoed. Darcy nodded. Steve’s stomach rumbled, and he flushed red in embarrassment. 

“Let me get you some food.” Darcy offered, and just like that, gained a second charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, this chapter was different than the format of the first two in which each of the three character's has a section from their point of view. Because Steve was unconscious, Darcy spoke twice in this one. I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you for being patient with me.
> 
> Edit: 2/2/19 I have not abandoned this fic! I am working on the next chapter and although it’s slow going, I promise it’s coming


	4. Chapter 4

Though it had been nearly a week since Steve was pulled back from the brink of death, he was yet to be convinced that he had not indeed passed beyond the veil. After all, he was in the presence on an angel; or so she seemed.

Steve watched as Darcy spun through her kitchen as lightly as the sunbeams shining in on her from the window. She was humming under her breath as she laid out strips of dark leather in the sun, coating them in some sort of translucent oil that dried as fast as she could bestow it. 

“Bootstraps,” Darcy explained when she caught Steve looking. “Charmed for safe travels.” She frowned at him. “A couple from the village commissioned them, but perhaps I should make you some as well.” Steve chuckled from his position in the plush sitting room chair. His wound was healing enough that it no longer hurt to laugh. 

The chair was close enough to the kitchen for Steve to watch Darcy work without getting in her way. It had taken him two days to convince Darcy to let him spend the day sitting in it, rather than lying on the bed. 

He’d tried out the puppy eyes that worked so well on his mother and his village baker but had only gotten scolded in return. “Don’t give me that look, Steve. You can get up when I am no longer afraid of you bleeding out.” Steve’s angel was fierce in her kindness. 

Steve liked to watch Darcy work. Half the time he didn’t understand what it was that she was doing. With her ever-present patience and good cheer, Darcy would rattle off ingredients and instructions and medicinal properties while she worked. 

When she wasn’t making salves for his wound, she was occupied with a variety of commission work from the nearby village: potions for “rainy days” and sewing elaborate runes into items of men’s clothing.

“I’m a witch,” Darcy told him not two days prior, folding her arms over her chest with a practicality that Steve could only envy. Her eyes were like lightning, bright and laughing as she took in his face. 

There was a shrewd tilt to Darcy’s mouth. She saw Steve’s expression and clucked her tongue. “Believe me or don’t,” Darcy called, spinning on her heel like a bird taking flight. “So long as you don’t start erecting pyres.”

Steve didn’t believe her, not at first. He still wasn’t entirely sure as to his thoughts on the matter. He did not believe in magic, nor witchcraft. He placed so called witches in the pile with fortune tellers and medicine men: charlatans and false prophets pulling tricks on the naive. Yet, if there was ever such a thing as magic it lived in Darcy Lewis.

The very way she moved was power, as if the life inside of her was too big to be contained in a human body. Space itself seemed to bend to her will, contorting itself to make space for her. 

Darcy’s smile was liquid fire and it burned through Steve every time she sent it his way. God, if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and the sweetest. There wasn’t a deceitful bone in her body. This was no con artist. 

Then there was the matter of Steve’s wound. A near killing blow, it should have taken him months to recover from fully. In anyone else’s care Steve would still be bedridden. Instead, he felt himself growing stronger every day. No hint of infection had touched the wound, which was closing at an unprecedented speed. 

Those strange salves and potions Darcy had bestowed upon him seemed to defy the Mistress of Time, flouting her conventions with the same grace and ease as their creator. Whoever, whatever, Darcy was, her skill was undeniable. As was her beauty. 

How many times had she caught Steve staring at her in infatuation, like a boy still wet behind the ears? 

Steve was infatuated. He’d come here to find his wolf once again. He still intended to. But Steve could not dismiss Darcy as a mere stop upon the path. He was drawn to her with the same inexplicable intensity as he was to Bucky. She felt like an integral piece of him that he had not known he was missing. 

“Steve,” she said to him one night, sighing heavily. “I’m almost out of blue jay bone marrow.” It was a problem that only Darcy would have. Steve looked up from one of her books that he’d borrowed. There were hundreds of them crammed into the shelves and nooks and crannies of the cottage. Darcy claimed to have read them all. 

Steve nodded towards the bow leaning against the fireplace. “I thought you knew how to shoot?” 

“I do,” Darcy complained, setting down the little jar she was holding with care. “But I cannot just collect more. Birds have very little marrow, so the process to extract it is tedious and I must collect from several birds to get enough to be worth it. It’s a valuable ingredient but I store very little of it.”

Steve still didn’t understand. “Can you not get more?”

“I can, but I won’t.” Her face was aglow with the yellow light of the moon. “I have killed too many this season already. I honor their sacrifice by not taxing the local bird population more than necessary. A witch never upsets the natural balance of things.”

It reminded Steve of his father, stopping him from killing that deer all those years ago. Balance. “What I have will have to last,” Darcy said cheerfully and joined him by the fire. 

“Have you ever been anywhere else?” He asked one morning, as they walked through the back garden. Darcy greeted the chickens by name and held on tightly to Steve’s arm as they walked. She glared at him when he rolled his eyes.

“Forgive me my worry. You were stabbed not long ago.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Don’t walk so fast. You promised you would take this slow.” Darcy waved her free hand in irritation as she talked. Steve was struck by the sudden urge to kiss each one of her fingers. 

“I’m practically good as new. You are a miracle worker, Darcy.” He gestured to the bandages hidden beneath his shirt. “Have you ever--”

“No,” Darcy answered. “I have never left this place.” They turned away from the fields as the sun rose behind them and made their way slowly toward the front of the house. Steve sat beneath the large oak tree there while Darcy fetched a basket from inside.

 

“Why not?” Steve called to her as she hung the washing on the clothesline. The wind rustled it and her dark hair softly. Steve’s side itched. The woods behind him reach out, wrapping around him like an earthen blanket. Soon, he promised himself. 

“I’ve never wanted to. This place is all I need.” Steve asked her once if she was always alone here. He’d seen the three grave markers on the edge of the property, the memories of her grandmother preserved so lovingly in Darcy’s home. He knew she was lonely. 

Steve caught Darcy watching him sometimes when she thought he wasn’t looking. Her face was so vulnerable in those moments, as if she was afraid he’d slip away while she wasn’t looking. 

When Steve put his hand on top of Darcy’s or brushed her shoulder while she cooked, she would tremble silently. He couldn’t fathom spending so many years alone with so little human contact or touch. 

I won’t leave you part of him whispered. I’ll hold you until a simple touch no longer makes you unravel. But Steve knew it was not a promise he could make. Every day he grew stronger his legs ached to venture into the forest. 

Steve needed to find Bucky. Then perhaps he could return to Darcy and see what might come of this dawning attraction. If he could stand to leave Bucky behind, of course.

What a mess his heart had become. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Darcy felt the howl in her bones before she heard it. 

A chill went through her and the hair on the back of her arms stood up. Steve poked his head up from the cellar, hidden by a hatch in the kitchen floor. “Was that a wolf?” His eyes were sharper than Darcy had ever seen them. 

Darcy dropped the kitchen knife she’d been cutting onions with onto the counter with a curse. “How many days have you been here?” she asked Steve. 

Steve climbed the ladder up from the cellar, the wine bottle Darcy had sent him to find tucked under one arm. He was not yet in perfect health, but well enough that light exercise such as climbing the ladder would do him good. 

“Perhaps… a week?” Steve postulated, looking confused by Darcy’s questioning. Darcy cursed again, wiping her hands on her apron before tearing it off and tossing it on the back of a nearby chair.

“Darcy, about that howl--”

“It is nothing to worry about,” Darcy said, striding across the room towards her cloak. How could she have forgotten? She’d been so busy taking care of Steve that she kept pushing back visiting Bucky. “Just a friend making a social call.”

The time had clearly gotten away from her and Bucky would be worried. Everything Darcy had read said werewolves had very strong protective instincts. What an idiot she’d been. “I need to venture into the forest. Just for a bit. Could you finish the stew for me? I should be back by the time it’s done.”

“I’ll come with you,” Steve insisted. Darcy only shook her head as she pulled her red cloak from the hook and slung it across her shoulders. Instantly, the weight of it wrapped around her like a favorite blanket. The magic stirred restlessly against Darcy’s skin, eager to protect her once again. Like a living thing, it grew bored when left unused.

“You might be mostly healed, but that is not the same as fully healed.” Besides, Darcy was unsure how Bucky would react to an unknown man accompanying her, especially since she’d vanished for a week without notice. 

“Darcy,” Steve insisted, blocking her path to the door. His body was tense. “I’ve been in those woods. They’re full of creatures more dangerous than you can imagine.” Another howl echoed in the air around them. Darcy put a hand on Steve’s chest and frowned. 

“I am more dangerous than you can imagine.” For a moment, they held one another’s gaze. Darcy’s irritation softened when she saw the worry there. “I will be fine, Steve. I’ve been within that forest many times before. I also have protection that you don’t.” 

Steve looked at her quizzically, but Darcy only pulled up the hood of her cloak with her free hand.

Darcy could see Steve did not want to relent. She couldn’t overpower him if he decided to seriously try and stop her, but physical strength didn’t matter. She had magic on her side. Still, Darcy did not want it to come to that.“If I’m not back by the time the sun goes down, then you can come after me, okay?”

After a long moment, Steve took the hand pressed to his chest and brushed his lips against the back of it. The touch was so faint that Darcy barely felt it. “That howl… you called it a social call. Is h-- is it a friend of yours?” He looked tense in a way Darcy had never seen him, not even when he’d awoken bloodied in a stranger’s home. 

“Yes. A good friend. One I’ve been neglecting,” Darcy responded quizzically. A look of relief came across Steve’s handsome face and Darcy resolved to ask him about it later. Then, Steve stepped out of her way. 

A storm of red fabric billowed behind Darcy as she slipped into the night. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky could smell Darcy as soon as she stepped in his domain. The forest magic parted like a veil for her, rippling outwards in waves as her own might pushed it aside. Bucky darted through the dirt and foliage with agile paws, tread deliberately heavy so Darcy would hear him coming. He didn’t want to startle her for both their sakes.

He saw the red of her cloak first, a crimson beacon in the moonlight. Bucky wanted to tackle her, to press his maw against her pulse and reassure himself that she was okay. But though his witch was fearsome, her body was still delicate; skin easily bruised and broke. 

So Bucky shifted into his human form and wrapped himself around her in a hug. It was a human custom, one that he had not used since the hunter and his son (and Darcy, of course). Still, Bucky admitted it had its merits as he buried his face against her neck and Darcy’s small hands grasped his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Darcy breathed. “I lost track of time.” For once, she didn’t complain about his lack of human clothes. Bucky jerked back. Beneath her usual scent was the tang of blood. It was old but strong.

Bucky gripped Darcy by the arms, scanning every inch of her. He tried to push her shirt up to survey the skin there but Darcy pushed his hands away with a gentle warning. “You injured? I smell blood.”

“I’m fine,” Darcy insisted, grasping his hands. Her flesh burned hot against his own. “I have a friend who was very hurt. I had to stay and help him.”

As she said it, Bucky noticed the scent intermingled with hers. It was that of a human man. Like charcoal and citrus. Bucky knew it immediately. 

It was Steve, the hunter’s son. Bewildered, Bucky took a step back. He had not seen nor smelled Steve in many summers. When they were boys, Bucky considered both him and his father to be pack. Choosing not to leave with them had been one of the hardest choices Bucky had been forced to make. 

Now Steve had returned and was apparently injured. Not only that, but his Darcy had cared for Steve. As if sensing how overwhelmed he was, Darcy put a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Bucky, are you okay?”

Bucky struggled to speak. “Steve?”

Surprise passed briefly over Darcy face, as did some amount of satisfaction. “You know him,” Darcy said. It was not a question. “I thought as much. But how?”

“Pack. Long past.” Bucky looked over her shoulder towards where he knew her home to be. “Steve was injured?” An anxious growl worked its way up in his throat.

“He’s okay now,” Darcy promised. Bucky relaxed, but only slightly. He wanted to verify for himself his pack member’s safety, just as he had done with Darcy. 

“You bring him?” Bucky asked. 

“Can you… can you come to him?” Darcy asked. Bucky slowly shook his head. She had never asked him to leave before. Bucky had not left this forest since he’d found the shelter of its magic as a child. It was safe here.

“Bring him. Please.” Darcy nodded. 

“I’ll bring Steve tomorrow.” She promised. Once again, Bucky buried his face against her shoulder. His pack, both of them, had come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you enjoyed and thank you for bearing with my during my busy schedule!

**Author's Note:**

> For reference on timeline: Steve is like 13 when he meets Bucky. Darcy would be 12 at the time, so she's the youngest of the three.


End file.
